Party Down
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: Not that his new group of friends really needs an excuse to throw a party because they celebrate things all the time; Earth Day, Jerry's birthday  kind of , end of hunting registration week. But this feels like it's going to be a blow out. Ben/Leslie


_Author's note: Yeah, that's right. I took that title from the show. Felt appropriate. So yeah, cool. _

Oh god, he can feel it before it happens. He knows it, like he has a sixth sense, like he has ESP, or clairvoyance, or whichever one of those new-agey afflictions one has when they _know what's going to happen in the future_.

It's in Andy's demeanor and April's eyes; he can smell it in the air, that crisp mix of winter leaving _for good_ and spring nudging its way in with pollen and rain. Yeah, it's nearly "patio weather" and that can only mean one thing.

A party.

Not that his new group of friends really needs an excuse to throw a party because they celebrate things all the time; Earth Day, Jerry's birthday (kind of), end of hunting registration week. But this feels like it's going to be a blow out.

The seed is planted in April's head when she's watching something on Logo about gay designers living in SoHo and one of them mentions returning a keg of Stella (people get kegs of Stella?). And Andy asks why anyone would want to _return_ a keg while April helpfully supplies, "So you can get your deposit back."

Ben thinks about the graveyard of empty kegs on the back porch and sees the light come to Andy's eyes, like a light bulb going off over Foghorn Leghorn's head. Idea! "So that means, we have like, how much is the deposit?"

God, how Andy is okay being in a relationship with someone who only looks at him a fraction of the time when he speaks... Ben does _not_ understand. He finds it maddening. April's eyes remain on the television when she asks, "Where did you get the kegs from?"

Andy thinks, actually scratches his head in confusion; he looks more the cartoon every day, Ben swears it. Andy recollects, "I think Pawnee Package?"

April shrugs, "Probably like... seventy-five,dollars then," she says, and she's almost smiling, almost.

Andy scrunches his nose. Does the math. Comes to a total. Shakes his head. Does the math again. Comes to a total. His eyes go wide. His eyes go so wide that Ben-for a moment-thinks he might be stroking out. "That's like seven-hundred dollars."

Ben wants to ask how they even managed to acquire that many empty kegs without the liquor store coming to look for them. Ben wants to say something about that refund being two months rent, but Andy's off and running before he can say anything.

He's up on the balls of his feet, excitement coursing through his body. "Okay, so we put away a month of rent and use to the rest to..." Ben's floored for a moment, by the responsibility he's showing by putting aside money; he's judging books by the covers when maybe he should stop, buckle down and _read them_.

But then there's a stillness, a calm-before-the-storm type feeling washes over him. Shit.

April tilts her head towards Ben, and with a spark of something that he can only identify as some sort of vengeance, nods her head. "House party."

Andy skips over and high fives her before adding, "And maybe a new amp."

It's Ben fault that he doesn't fight the decision. He does _live there now_ after all. But there's a part of him that yes, that thinks, okay, a party might be okay. Yes, though he's a high-functioning adult, there isn't anything necessarily awful about a party. A party might be _fun_.

A party might afford the opportunity to be around people in public that one might not be able to be around in public under normal circumstances. And he's become good at seeking out these opportunities over the past few weeks. A chance to host such an opportunity might actually be rewarding in ways that Ben hadn't expected.

But he's thinking about this too much; he needs to stop thinking.

Ben offers to return the kegs under one condition: they all pitch in on the post-party clean up.

It's been years since he was invited to a party via flyer, maybe since college. April grabs some green paper from the supply closest, and photocopies the flyer Andy has rendered from newspaper and magazine cut outs.

It reads like they've taken someone hostage: "9:30, May 4th, MouseRat and Special Guests. Be there." To doesn't help that every letter is in a different font face than the other. It hurts his eyes, but he leaves it on his desk for the every-day passerby to glance at.

The more the merrier, really. Andy's given them quite a budget to work with (four hundred dollars is a huge budget to work with when buying nothing but Natty Ice and cheese curls) so he's fairly certain they'll be in tepid, flat beer for days. The more people that show up, less he has to deal with dumping.

He's definitely not keeping the flyer on his desk so that Leslie might happen upon it, ask him about it, confirm that she'll be attending. He definitely didn't do it for _that_ reason, because he's thirty-five years old, and that would be so juvenile that he can't comprehend.

So no, he's not leaving it there for that reason.

Not that it's a bad thing when she swings by his office, points to it and asks, "You the co-host?"

He hadn't thought of that. Hadn't thought of the fact that though he's actually kind of _facilitating_ this thing. "I uh, yeah, I guess I am." Ben drops the pen he's been fiddling with and focuses his full attention on her. "Is this the sort of thing you keep a list for? Like to RSVP? And if so, do I include you on that list?"

Leslie rolls her eyes and helps herself to a seat. "Come on Ben, you know how house parties work." It causes a stabbing in his gut, the way she says it. She's poking fun at him and she's _delighting_ in it.

It's too easy to imagine them in bed on a Sunday morning, fighting over the paper. God, what a-

Ben swallows delicately, righting his world on it's axis. "Has much changed over the past ten years?" It's probably been that long since his last, previously-planned house party. (April and Andy's wedding just doesn't count. It just doesn't.)

Her smile is delicate, like she's conceding. "I guess not. It's still cheap beer and running out of toilet paper and walking in on couples making out when you go to get your coat," she figures.

"Oh. Good. So I won't totally be a fish out of water," he jokes, but it falls flat, because Leslie is looking at him in a way that sets his world right back on tilt. Fuck.

"No, not totally. And I'll be there, so, you know," Leslie says quietly, and he expects her to smile, but she doesn't. "If you _are_ keeping a list."

"Oh. Good," Ben's vision goes a touch blurry and he doesn't know why.

She nods. "Yep."

Ben picks his pen back up and taps it down with every new word. "Cool, cool... cool."

Leslie uncrosses her legs and stands slowly. "Anything you want me to bring?"

He almost says, 'Just yourself,' and he's glad that he doesn't because it would probably come out far less appropriate than he would intend. "Uhm, nope, nope."

"Alright, so... Friday then," she confirms and backs up to the door. "See you then!"

"See you then," he agrees and... is his voice thicker than he intended it to be? Jesus.

'Leslie is coming,' he scratches out in his distinctive, tiny scrawl. It takes him a half-an-hour to get back to what he was working on when she came in.

Turns out it's three kegs of Bud Light that end up ordered; Ben can already smell the next-day dried-on-the-linoleum scent, and he almost regrets agreeing to this thing.

Andy is filling keg buckets with ice and heaving the casks into them. As Ben watches he and his wife trying to get the taps situated, he's struck by the realization of how absurd all of this is. Thirty-five, he's thirty-five and he's living with twenty-somethings and is about to partake in the throwing of-if the hype is to be trusted-what's going to be a rager.

There's still no furniture in the house save for some folding chairs and card tables, and so nothing really has to be moved. So Ben stands there, looking awkward, waiting for someone to ask him to do something.

When they don't, he speaks up.

"So, uhm, anything off limits beside, you know, the bedrooms?" It really has been forever (years and years and oh god, so many years) since he's done something like this, and he's a bit rusty. You're supposed to block off personal rooms, right? Or tell people to put their coats and things... somewhere? A dinner party, that he could handle. Because, _as he keeps reminding himself_ he's a good adult, responsible. Not throwing caution to the wind. Nothing being thrown towards any sort of breeze around here.

Not doing crazy things like inviting all of his colleagues to a party as his not-so-adult home. Whatever, he's tired of warring with his sense of better judgment. And for all he knows, this could actually turn out to be _really fun_.

"The bathrooms," April deadpans and flashes her eyes to his for a minute.

He purses his lips; he volleys her serve. "So just the bedrooms then," Ben fires back and leans over and snatches the receipt for the beer off of the floor where Andy has carelessly tossed it; he hastily snatches it, making a show out of shoving his hand into pocket.

"Hey man, why are you stressing? Things'll just... come together." Andy opens his arms wide, as to prove that the pre-party set up they've already managed is perfect. Though, all that they've really done is move all the breakable to the cabinets and set out a sticky folding table for beer pong.

Beer pong, dear god, he hasn't thought about that game since sophomore year of college.

"Yeah, I'm just... never mind, is that thing all set?" Ben asks, walking the brief distance to the large, ice-filled bucket before snatching up a red, plastic cup and holding it out. Andy looks from April to Ben and back, but fills Ben's cup with beer. After taking a sip and cringing only slightly (oh this tastes like dusty hangover and bad decisions; he's shocked his stomach can handle it anymore), he continues, "I know MouseRat is playing a set, but can I get my iPod back." After a beat, "Yeah, I know that you have it."

He wants it to come out harsh, he wants there to be warning of repercussions that if it happens again, well, there will be repercussions. But he's not upset and he finds that really strange. When April half-smiles at him, and reaches into his pocket, there's a low hum of affection for the girl that he can't explain.

"Why do you want it?" April asks apprehensively (like she even has the right to _ask_ him that; it's _his_) as she plays with the nozzle, splatters of beer hitting the floor. Her husband gets down on his knees, opens his mouth, and for a moment it's like a dog at the garden hose. Ben's equal parts amused and disgusted, but forges on with his purpose.

There are rules for parties; he's aware of this. Ensure people are having a good time, mingle, be sure that the flow of alcohol is constant and cold and _play good music_. Not that Andy's music isn't good, and not that April's is awful, but he knows that to please everyone that's going to be there, he needs to mix it up a little.

He has, after all, seen _High Fidelity_ about forty times (because it's arguably one of Cusack's best, and maybe he has a little man-crush on John Cusack, but whatever) and knows that it's really the music that makes an event.

"Because, you need a party playlist." He says it like, "Leave this to a pro." April frowns and digs into her pocket, produces his iPod. Ben takes it, smiles thankfully at her (see, not _everything_ has to be a fight) and pockets it himself.

"I erased all of your music and synced it with Andy's iTunes." April's mouth jumps, almost into a smile, but not quite. "And besides, can't you just make a mixtape?"

He takes pause for a moment, following her logic. "Because I'm old?" Ben guesses.

She half-smiles. "You're old," April nods.

Ben chugs the rest of his beer and handed the empty cup to Andy; he wants to burp for effect, but manages to tamper that sudden compulsion. "Yeah, but so's he."

Judging by the look on April's face, she hadn't really thought of that.

Ben feels that perhaps maybe he's getting the hang of this. That maybe he really is a co-host, that maybe people will show up and want to see him in the way that they want to see Andy and April.

"Just so you know," Ben adds before he disappears down the hallway to his room. "You guys are doing okay, adult-wise."

"Yeah man?" Andy asks and his voice begs approval; it's cute and it's sad and so Ben just tells the truth.

"Yeah. But not too, too adult. Adults don't throw," and his voice becomes oddly giddy when he finishes, "Bitchin' house parties."

He's booted up his Mac and is pulling up his iTunes as soon as he meanders back to his room. It only takes him forty-five minutes to load all of his music back on the device, and makes an effort to password protect his iPod for future use. (What, though, had he expected, leaving it out in the open like that?)

As he waits for his library to upload, he checks his email, clears out the junk and is about to x out when a new piece of mail arrives in his inbox.

From: Leslie Knope

Subject: Crappy beer!

Body: I know you pretend like you can stomach that light beer nonsense but I'm bringing a red ale that Ann said is really good.

And you're going to try it.

And you're going to like it.

-Leslie

The smile that he finds himself smiling is kooky, and it hurts his face. It _literally_ hurts his face. And like an emo-stricken teen, he twists around his bed and flops down, burying his face in a pillow. How is it that, even in a short email, she can get to him.

How it is that in a short email, she can _get_ him?

Jesus fucking christ, this is getting to be too much. Thinking of her. Anything-ing about her, really.

Leslie's the kind of woman that makes him think of late nights and too much scotch. Leslie's the kind of woman that makes him want to turn your radio up to high and walk into the ocean, fully-clothed. Leslie is the kind of woman that makes him wonder if he should change his shirt, his shoes, his life.

His computer makes a pleasant little noise, signifying that his iPod reload is complete and Ben sits up. He catches sight of himself in mirror and he's not so much tired as he looks a little worn around the edges. Shirt wrinkled, hair slightly mussed, tie askew.

Ben begins unbuttoning; he's going exceedingly casual tonight. It is his house after all, it's where he lives, and if he wants to wear jeans and a t-shirt, he should be able to. She's probably not going to show up in her usual office attire, so why should he be all stuffy?

And buttoned up.

Ben retrieves a gray shirt from his dresser and pulls it on; he leaves his hair alone. He glances in the mirror, checking his appearance. It looks like something he would wear grocery shopping, pretty boring, but not, because he's comfortable and he looks... fine. Plain. Ordinary.

He looks so entirely generic and normal, and he's pretty happy with the way he looks, and with the way he feels. Because he likes t-shirts and he likes jeans and he likes sneakers and he wants to be wearing them more often. He wants her to know him outside of office-Ben.

And because she might like it, who knows? Not that he cares. He's not going to go overboard here, just shoot for casual and nonchalant and be totally cool, just fine with everything. Because tonight, Ben's gonna let it all slide, let it roll off of his shoulders, because he doesn't care.

_Except for that he totally, completely cares_.

No one uses the doorbell, it turns out. Because the doorbell doesn't work. People don't bother to knock either, they just open the door and come right on in when they show up. So when he's in the kitchen, eating the last bite of his dinner (who knew that Pawnee had such good Thai take out?) Oren manages to sneak up on him, as Oren is wont to do.

And yeah, he almost loses his dinner. "Oren, hi, I'm... going into that room now," he says, chocking on a grain of fried rice. He skips over the kitchen step and nearly skitters into a wall, has half the presence of mind to yell for, "April!"

She shuffles into the room in a dress, but something less baggy than she usually wears. She gives a shoulder shrug as a hello to her friend, and pulls a goblet from the cabinet. April fills it with beer while Ben wonders why the hell they have a goblet reserved for this kid in the first place.

And who the hell drinks from _goblets_?

People show up pretty regularly after that, barging their way in and making a beeline to the keg. Some he recognizes, some he doesn't, but it feels nice that the ones he _does_ know come over as soon as they see him and compliment him on the party. On choosing to stay. On moving in with Andy and April.

Like it's the best thing he's ever chosen to do.

There's high fiving, some tentative hugging (tentative on his part, of course) and people bring beer although they have more than they'll ever finish. Tom brings three microbrews, just because they're flashy and they're new and someone told him something great about them. Ben mentions that he's been meaning to try the pale ale, and Tom lights up like he's won the lottery; he pops one open for him and hands it over.

"From Portland," Tom explains, and watches Ben as he takes a sip. "Those hippies get something right?"

Ben holds back the cough that rises in his throat; it's bitter, doesn't have a clean finish, and it's something he can only describe as putrid. "Ah, yeah, yeah, it's okay."

"Cool, because that cost me like, twenty bucks." Tom grabs two bottles between his fingers and he's off surveying the crowd, seeking out any woman that would be willing to talk to him; he has to cater to a select crowd because as always, he's the only man in a suit at a house party.

He's in the middle of disposing of the pale ale, when he feels a tap on his shoulder. He spins to hastily, nearly knocks a six pack out of Leslie's hand. "Tom didn't make you try that godawful microbrew did he? God, just because it costs more..." she trails off and her eyes do this thing that-

Oh god, she's looking him up and down.

Literally raking her eyes over his body and all he manages to do it bark out a rough, "Hi."

"Hi," Leslie returns and smiles at him, slowly, sweetly. When she blinks up and meets his eyes he feels a low thrill run through his stomach. "I brought you good beer, really good beer."

"Yeah?" his voice is doing that thing again, it's like he can't help it. All low and bashful and so completely hopeful; for a moment, he hates himself. Because this isn't him, he doesn't fawn and yet here he is, _fawning_.

"I promise... though," she takes a glance towards the kitchen, where Andy is holding a friend's feet aloft as he attempts a keg stand. "You may not need any extra beer. Who got... you got three kegs?" And though there are a decent number of people there and though there are more arriving, she's right: that's _a lot_ of beer.

"Not me!" he holds up his hands in defense, "I was told that was the necessary amount to ensure maximum intoxication."

There's a loud guffaw and Andy drops his friend, beer spilling everywhere. Not that anyone seems to care, as they won't be the ones cleaning it up. Ben rubs a hand over his face, once more wondering about the why and the how of letting himself get into this situation. 'You're overthinking it again,' he chastises himself and makes an effort to just chill the heck out.

"So... red ale, you said?" He smiles down at her because she's smiling up at him and when Leslie holds up a bottle, their hands brush. And oh god, even that, even just the fraction of a second of skin on skin and his entire body is on fire.

It occurs to him, then and there with Journey blaring in the background and anonymous twenty-somethings playing beer pong in the kitchen and his coworkers milling about, that he's falling in love with someone who is technically his subordinate, _right in his living room_.

What the _hell_?

Crushes are crushes but falling in love with your coworker after as little as a single touch is not _generally_ how these things happen. Ben starts to freak out a little, the bottle in his hand shaking has his body becomes jittery and she's still smiling up at him and, "I need a bottle opener!" he shouts and bolts.

He's in the kitchen, sliding across the linoleum seconds later, opening and closing drawers with manic determination. If he could just find a bottle opener... his hand curls around a long piece of metal and he withdraw it triumphantly. He uncaps the bottle like a madman, the tiny metal disc flying into the television room and he begins to drink the beer in haste.

Leslie's in front of him then, brow knitted in confusion and concern and after he's drained half of the beer he stops. He breathes. He takes stock of the situation. Okay, this wasn't how things were supposed to go, but it's not the worst. Of all of the outcomes of tonight's party, falling in love with Leslie in the living room isn't the _worst_.

So there _is_ that.

"You okay?" she asks and sips at her own beer and she looks more than a little amused. After his nod to the affimative, she assesses him. "So, we get dressed-down Ben, tonight? It's a nice change from office-Ben."

"Office-Ben, Dressed-Down-Ben, _Mean_-Ben, what am I, an action figure?"

She laughs quietly to herself and then with the corner of her mouth, through a smile, she says, "You could be."

"Oh could I, now?"

Leslie nods and takes another gulp from her bottle. "Yeah, like, Mayor-Boy, complete with recently printed diploma or... yeah, no, nevermind, that first one is good enough."

"Mayor Boy," he tests it, wryly.

She's got this evil glint in her eyes that's doing all sorts of things to his stomach (and beyond) when she responds, "Yep." It's clipped, it's cute and it holds the promise, of something else.

Ben's lip curl into his own version of an evil grin. "You think you're funny."

"I _know_ I'm funny," she banters back, swiveling her head around in an amalgamation of smack talk.

That stops him, for whatever reason, that stops him right in his thoughts and Ben says, "I know," as though it's a revelation. As though he's never really thought about how _funny_ she is before.

They hold one another's gaze for a moment, and then she looks away, cheeks blushing a furious shade of pink. "I'm... hey, I'm going to go and... make the rounds, say hello to, you know, everyone." She switches her beer from one hand to the other and back. And then back again. "I'll come find you? When I'm done?"

"Sure."

Leslie smiles hesitantly, goes to walk away and then turns back; her lips are poised as though to say something, but she shakes her head, makes a beeline for the den and disappears amongst a sea of Andy's friends.

Ben mills about, introduces himself to some people, shows Ann where the bathroom is, accidentally walks in on people making out when he does so. All in all, it feels like they're pulling off a pretty good house party experience.

He circles through the kitchen and tosses a few of the empties into the recycle bin and then gets himself a cup of beer.

When she seeks him out, a half an hour later, she's a little tussled; her jacket is gone and the sleeves on her button up are rolled to the elbow and she's pink from the heat and the alcohol. She's pretty much the picture of perfection, as far as he's concerned and he has to remind himself not to stare.

Because staring is rude.

And leads to... unfriendly thoughts.

"Do I get a tour?" there's a half-empty (no, it's half-full, everything is half-full when she's looking at him like that) Solo cup in her hand, and she brings it to her lips, takes a few sips.

Ben needs to play it cool, because, years ago, ten or fifteen, a question like that would be an invitation of sorts. But he needs to handle this situation properly. Chris is hanging around in the television room, by the vegetable platter, explaining to an attractive woman the benefits of uncooked broccoli. That doesn't mean he can't, in a fraction of a second, descend on him and figure out just what's going through Ben's head.

All he can think to say is, "You've been here before."

Leslie's face steels for a moment, falls, and then there's this glimmer in her eyes that nearly does him in. "Yes, but that was pre-grown up; I hear they have a bathmat now!" And she's on the balls of her toes, giddy or gleeful or something and he's smiling around the rim of his cup.

"That's true," he smiles and nearly reaches out to grab her hand, stops himself before he can. "Well, you've seen the living room and the kitchen," he points, as though a realtor. "But have you seen our recently reorganized laundry closet?"

"I have not!" she claims, feigning excitement.

"Then, right this way!" he sweeps a hand in front of him and they meander their way through the people towards the laundry closet. Ben grabs the handles of the closet and pulls open the closet with gusto. What was once an organized laundry closet is now a mound of dirty clothes heaped on both the washer and the dry.

Ben pauses, pulls back, closes the doors. "I swear this was neat the other day."

"I believe you," she laughs and places a soft hand on his bicep. "Where else?"

Ben shows her the bathroom, where the couple making out have apparently taken up residence. Ben asks them if he knows them, a rhetorical question but they both respond with a bored "No," and resume sticking their tongues down each other's throat. He does point out the bathmat, sitting proudly before the tub.

Leslie high fives him in appreciation, and then he leads her down the hallway. His hands are in his pockets, because he's unsure of all of this, of bringing her back this far, especially since they'd all agreed that the bedrooms were off limits.

Not that he doesn't have purview over his own bedroom, but that's not the point. The point is if they go back to his bedroom, it's only polite to show her his bedroom and then she'll be in his bedroom and he'll try and make his way out of the situation that will present itself. Because Ben will inevitable bumble over why his room is so sparse and she will _inevitably_ be standing near his bed and then he'll imagine her _in_ his bed, and that's the end of that.

And now he's thinking about her in his bed while trying to keep her from entering into a situation in which he'll be imagining her in his bed. Circular reasoning, he can't get away from it.

"So this is April and Andy's room. I still don't know if they have a bed," Ben leaves his hand on the door jamb and pats it twice before turned around and walking them back a few feet. "And this... is... my room."

No, he couldn't possibly have made that any weirder; he almost wants to pat himself on the back.

Leslie's smile reigns itself in, it's tiny, almost shy, and she presses her hand on the jamb. His vision blurs a little because of the beer and because of how close she is and the sounds from the party are so distant in his ears that he can almost imagine that they're alone.

Until someone makes their way down the hall and Ben does the first thing that comes to mind: he flings open the door to his room and shoves her in, quickly following.

"What the-what was that?" she shrieks even as he holds a finger up to his mouth, shushing her.

When he stops to think about it, he has no idea why he did what he did. Because it's his house, he can do whatever he wants. Conversely, there had been something happening in that moment, her hand on the jamb, him imaging her doing all sorts of _unprofessional_ things in his bed and anyone that would have happened upon them would have seen that.

Would have seen that there's something... there.

"Ben, what the hell!" she whispers, stepping over to him as he presses his ear to the door and hears something moving. Like fabric shifting on a surface. There's a bumping, a grunting, a groan and, yeah, Ben is almost one hundred percent sure that the couple from the bathroom is making out against his door. Or... possibly doing more.

Ben's hands go to his hair, pulls at it, "Yeah, there are people making out against my door. So, _that's_ awesome."

Leslie's eyes go wide, but she's attempting not to break a smile. "No, come on, just open the door," she takes a few steps towards the door. "They'll fall in here, it'll be funny!" Ben grabs her wrist before it can reach the knob.

"Nah-no, just, don't!" he won't meet her eyes.

"Why not, Ben, I-"

Ben kicks at the ground, grits his teeth, looks everywhere except at her, basically. "If anyone sees you in my room, they might think... things." His hands circle around one another to signify what _things_ might mean.

She too begins moving her arms around. "Ooooh, things, anything but _things_!" She giggles at him and finishes off her beer. Suddenly, she's very serious, "But no, yeah, you're right. They will think things."

Ben smiles tightly and they stand there for a moment just looking at each other, around the room. "Window?" she asks, pointing her thumb over her shoulder.

"N'yeah, I'm pretty sure there's a family of raccoons living in there and I'm terrified of raccoons." He deadpans. "Fun fact."

She snorts out a laugh but it's cut off by a groan from against the door. He really, really hopes they haven't "scaled up" their "operation" outside. It's uncomfortable enough already, without the sounds of fairly obvious macking taking place _against his door_. And he wishes he could find the humor in this situation, but Leslie has moved herself to the bed, and is sitting on it.

Leslie is sitting on his bed.

...cool.

Leslie frowns and shakes herself around a bit, "Man! I don't want to be stuck in here with you, not doing _things_ if people are just going to assume we're doing _things_ anyway."

Ben leans against his wall, a foot or two from the door and regards her. He may be drunk, he may not be (truth be told, he isn't sure he's passed the limit to drunk) but through his power of reasoning, Ben is fairly certain that Leslie just implied that they may as well just do... stuff...

Because people will already assume, if they're caught that they _have_ been doing... stuff.

"I'm sorry, are you... what you're saying is that basically... I mean you think that since people will assume, if we're caught, which isn't a definite that we will be, but if we are caught people will assume we're up to hanky panky in here. So we... might as well do it?"

Leslie blinks.

Ben backtracks. "And by it, I mean... I don't know what I mean."

Her lip curls a little, "Did you just say _hanky panky_?"

"Uh huh."

She blinks again. "Wow, way to suck the air out of a moment."

She deadpans it so perfectly, that he can't help but laugh. Ben hangs his head, hands in his pockets and wonders just what the hell he's doing. Just what the hell conspired to get them into a vacant bedroom with the sounds of obvious amour, just feet away. "I don't know," he laughs lightly, "Those two are kind of killing the mood."

Her laugh is genuine, full of mirth, and Leslie leans to rest her weight on her hands. "Yeah," she agrees, but it's not convincing.

Like, at all.

And in the dim lamp-light of his room, this is almost romantic. It's almost a perfect moment.

He doesn't so much make a decision, but pushes himself off of the wall with his elbows, pulls his hands from his pockets. It only takes him two strides to make it to her, and she doesn't move, just remains reclined on her hands.

It may not be the perfect moment, but it's the one he's going to remember. "Leslie," he whispers, and he's kind of smiling, kind of not, kind of feels lightheaded.

"Yeah?" she asks him, sits up.  
>"I... don't know," he decides, as his hands cup her face and he leans down and kisses her softly. Leslie hums quietly in her throat, and sits up straighter, one hand moving to the scruff on his jaw, the other hooking through one of the belt loops on his jeans.<p>

They stay like that for a moment, nearly motionless, until he pulls away, glances down at her through hooded eyes.

"Hope that lived up to what everyone _might_ think is happening in here," he jests, but he's breathless, and he desperately wants to kiss her again.

Leslie sighs, scrunches up her face, mocking him, pretending to be thoughtful. "Well, you know Tom, he has a really dirty mind," she suggests.

"Reaaaally..."

She continues. "So dirty, "Letters to Penthouse Dirty," she babbles and he slides his fingers into her hair.

"That so?"

"I've read some of them," she says breathily, nearly desperately, "They're really, really..." And she can't think of any more words, or if she can, she doesn't say them. Leslie's chest heaves with breath and she stares up at him, waiting.

Waiting on him to make the move.

"Blah, blah, blah, coy line about putting the bed to use," he deadpans, and kisses her again, shifting her back onto the bed until she's laying back with him half-covering her. "This isn't the ideal 'first kiss' scenario I had imagined," he breathes in between kisses.

"But you did imagine it?" she asks, turning the tables on him, shifting him so that he's underneath her, Leslie straddling his hips.

Ben blinks at her, delirious, happy, "So many times. Like, infinity cubed."

"You can't cube infinity."

"I just did."

"It's impossible," she giggles as he nips at her neck.

"Who's the accounting major here? This guy. I know how numbers work." He does, he knows numbers, and how one and one makes two. But he's feeling right now like one and one is five, because she's settling down against him, her hips slowly pressing down and his eyes roll back in his head and he's a goner.

He is. So glad. They threw.

A party.

This isn't the ideal; even in his want-soaked brain, he knows that this isn't as romantic as it could be, as it probably should be. But how often have best laid plans gone awry? Ben's hands find her hips and he's shocked at how still they both become. They're gazing at each other (and it _is_ gazing, not looking, or staring, but gazing) his thumbs lightly skating over the revealed skin on her hips and he feels remarkably centered.

As though this is the one place in the universe he's supposed to be. She's looking at him as though, "Yes, this is _it_" and everything clicks. It doesn't matter where this happens, or when, because it's _going_ to happen.

And it's not going to be perfect, but it's going to be exactly everything they both need.

"How'd we end up here?" she asks in sedated awe, her hands pressed against his sides.

He can feel himself smiling lazy, and he doesn't care how his hair looks, he forgets what he's wearing, or whose idea it was to make this gathering happen, because she's gorgeous, and he wants to make her, just, just... so happy. There's really nothing else but that.

"Long version, or short?" he begins, and it's brilliant that there's no tension to break, that he can just speak, just poke fun, because everything feels entirely natural. "I rolled into town prepared to slash your budget, you broke me down because you're awful and then you wouldn't leave me alone, you basically stalked me and then-"

Leslie smacks his chest, but they're both laugh. His cheeks are pink, her cheeks are pink and it all feels really lovely. "Everyone thinks we're doing this anyway," she asks with a hint of fear, desperation in her voice.

"I'm not really interested in what everyone else is thinking," Ben remarks, in an aloof manner. "I'm interested in what you're thinking."

After a beat, "Leslie, what are you thinking?"

"Honestly?" she squeaks.

"Yeah."

"'twanttoscrewthisup," she manages in one, quick breath.

Ben's eyes refocus once, twice and he says, "Get up." His voice is low, and rougher than his normal, outside-of-his-bedroom (yep, they're in his bedroom, and they're making out and there's no mistaking _that_, he reminds himself) voice.

When she moves to stand, Ben does as well, quickly.

"Sooo... this is happening," she confirms. To herself. To him.

"Leslie," he blows out a breath and squeezes his eyes shut. "You are... I like you. This is... amazing... and if you don't want to... with this-"

"Shut up!" she eeks out and takes one step backward, "Just, just..." Her eyes are wild and she looks kind of crazy. But there's nothing strange about that; she's just made up her mind. "Come here!"

He reaches for the button on his jeans, undoes it and then stops. For some reason, he feels as though he's being presumptuous, although they're already standing around half naked and he pretty sure he knows what's going to happen; she'd even _said_ she wanted him to take off his pants but... Leslie watches him carefully, as he rethinks and brings his shaky hands to the fly.

She's on him in a second, "You're too slow," she says, and it almost sounds annoyed. But he doesn't so much care, because Leslie's hands are removing his pants, letting them fall to his feet, where he kicks them along with his shoes, off.

Ben doesn't hold back, reaches for her, has his hands buried in her hair in about a second, and is pulling her lips to his. It's harsher this time, deeper, and Ben tries with everything in him to make her understand what's going on between them, for him. It's more than that he likes her, it's much more than that, but it's short of him declaring his undying... you know... for her. It's strong, and it's real, and it feels like eons since it's felt like this.

Oh god, her hands are _everywhere_, and of course they are because Leslie is a tornado and she's everywhere all the time; her fingers are digging at his shirt, pulling it upwards and he thanks whatever deity that is listening that she's as confident as she is.

His hands are shaking so badly right now he's not sure he could have managed the shirt.

She pulls it over his torso and it gets a little difficult navigating his head but together, they de-shirt him. Immediately, Ben thinks about the last time he worked out (two years ago? god) and then it doesn't matter. Because she's in this for _this_, for everything that _this_ entails, and it doesn't matter.

"You have a," Leslie begins, moving her hands up his torso, from his stomach to his shoulders, where they stop and rest, "Nice chest."

"I try," his voice dips deeper, imitating... well, imitating _something_.

She scoffs, "No you don't," and gives him a shove, in the center of his chest. Ben falls back and hits the bed and this is quickly becoming the... hottest thing he's ever done. And with someone he really likes. He kind of still can't believe this is happening, and doesn't think about people coming and looking for them, and doesn't think about any other possible outcome than being inside of her.

She takes off her shirt with ease; for a moment, he's blinded by smooth, smooth, white skin. Then his hands find her hips again, and he has to say, "Wait, just... hang on." Leslie smiles warmly and pauses as Ben just... looks.

Gets his fill.

"Jesus," Ben whispers, tightly and he screws his eyes up. It's nearly too much.

"Hey," she says, her hands resting lightly over his hipbones. "We can..."

But he sits up and flips them, and she's laughing, her entire body shaking. "No more talking," he mumbles as he goes in for another kiss. This all feels so incredibly easy, in the moment.

There's no talking for a long, long, time. Ben's never heard her sigh quite that way, and he's never actually had to attempt to control himself so much with a woman. It's insane. And wonderful.

When he presses into her, Leslie says, "Oh thank god that's good."

And even though it nearly kills him, Ben stills, grits out, "What?"

"If it were bad," Leslie gasps, using her hands on his lower back to pull him closer, deeper. "Can you imagine?"

Oh god, he laughs, drops his head to her collarbone, kisses her there. "That would have been..." But then he moves, and all bets are off.

There's the sounds of The Postal Service from the living room, and her gasps, and they can't stop looking at one another as he moves. So. Slow. Ben feels like he's waking up, like he's peeling his eyes open for the first time today.

When she comes, she smiles.

Of course she smiles.

Eventually, the sounds against Ben's door stop and the couple outside moves on, and Leslie rests her head on Ben's shoulder. It's only a little after midnight, and he doesn't see the party winding down for another few hours, so he feels fine just lying with her like this, for a little bit longer.

"Was that the stupidest thing we could have done?" Leslie asks him on the tail of a yawn.

Ben stares at the ceiling, but allows a thumb to brush over her bare shoulder. "Definitely not the smartest."

He glances at her, "But I'm okay with it."

They're redressing (Ben is playing keep away with her blouse) and touching and he keeps kissing her and it's overall really wonderful. Once she fixes her hair in the mirror, he moves to stand behind her, places his hands lightly on her hips. "I like... this."

Leslie smiles shyly and meets his eyes in the mirror. "Me too."

The moment is broken when he hears voices in the hall. "I haven't seen them in over an hour," April says, bored.

"They in there?" Tom asks, and then there's a knock.

"No, that's Ben's bedroom."

"Hah!" Tom laughs, knocks again. "You kids in there hooking up?"

Leslie looks at Ben. Because he doesn't know what else to say, or because he's tired of running and denying himself of things, he says with very little effort, "Yeah."

Tom throws open the door, a grin plastered on his face. "Oh come on, yeah right."

April folds her arms across her chest and glances at them. "Nice try. Come back out here, the iPod froze, and Andy's about to..." She turns and walks away, Tom following with a hurried gesture for them to follow.

"We'd better go," he agrees, taking the risk to bend down and drop one kiss where her neck meets her shoulder. "Can't miss MouseRat."

He wakes up hungover, sore, but to find that Andy and April have cleaned the entire house. He's glad for it, after MouseRat's set, he'd been roped into beer pong, and the night gets fuzzy after that.

Leslie hadn't stayed over (they're crazy for each other, but they're not that stupid) but she had dragged him into a closet to kiss him senseless before she'd left for the evening.

Ben gets out of bed, can feel the dopey smile on his face, doesn't bother trying to mask it.

Luckily, he's alone in the home, save for a singular cup of coffee and egg sandwich that are laid out on a sheet of paper on the kitchen counter; on the paper, Andy has written in his familiar block handwriting: Eat Me.

He's glad for it. He's glad for... everything lately.

He's halfway through unwrapping the sandwich when something catches his eye. Scribbled on the waxy paper in April's tiny script is, "Way to hit that. Haven't decided on blackmail yet. I took your iPod."

Ben blinks, he shrugs.

Okay, but this isn't _the worst_...


End file.
